


Love Has No Heart

by caligulasavior9



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Ambition, Angst, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Internal Conflict, LaCroix is one hell of a prick, POV LaCroix, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, ish, like yea there'll be smut don't worry, the fledgling is an enigma the prince wishes to solve completely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-07-20 13:19:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16138067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caligulasavior9/pseuds/caligulasavior9
Summary: The young woman shook her head. “Save it. I have no interest in your money.”LaCroix ceased as he was about to pull a blank check from the drawer, his brows drew together in puzzlement. “No?”“No, I’m more interested to hear what’s our next move is considering the blood is still out there.”This was most certainly new. Of all the people he had employed, never had he met someone who blatantly refused to be paid. This was certainly new and it very much confused the Prince.Just what exactly was she playing here? If this was a game at all. LaCroix had learned it the hard way that nothing is free in this world. Everyone would always want something out of everyone, a favor for a favor, an eye for an eye. Though he was curious to find out what her intent was, LaCroix knew better than to indulge his curiosity. If anything, never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i am like 14 years late. i've just recently played vtmb this year per the recommendation of my sister, and now i despise myself how on earth i could live all these years without ever acknowledging the existency of that masterpiece???? regardless, it's better late than never.
> 
> i immediately fell in love with lacroix's character and the fact that he stabbed us in the back just fortified the whole affair, hence this story was born. i've already written roughly about four chapters for this story, so if you're digging it or simply detest it, let me know, yeah? merci!
> 
> the title shamelessly derived from _love has no heart _by thievery corporation__

Downtown Los Angeles. Could there possibly be any place that was filthier than _this_?

He’d seen the world from many different aspects of time; he’d fought the horrors of wars, he’d witnessed London during the Industrial Revolution with all its smog and deadly diseases and the Middle East during Bonaparté’s ambitious Mediterranean campaign, yet _nothing_ in his journey could prepare the Prince for the mess that was Los Angeles.

This city was rotten to the core. They had no morals, no strictures. The dirtiest and crummiest bunch of people he’d ever met. Apparently, fame was the only holy apostle that these useless kine sought to achieve more than anything these days, drugs or whatever substance that would guarantee an absolute death were their food. They were far more disgusting than the Nosferatu and their reek breaths and they were the ones who lived in the sewers.

And LaCroix shuddered thinking about it.

To think that his kind had to live alongside these cretins-- no, scratch that, to think that his kind had to _hide_ from humans for what they were. For centuries the Camarilla had to promulgate the Masquerade to keep a low profile, warded off from every prying eyes and LaCroix didn’t even want to imagine what would happen should the humans find out.

Hence, now under his regime, was it selfish if the Prince wanted more than just hiding? He knew such ambition was like a pipe dream and considering how nearly half of his fellow kindred detested him, it was like trying to skate on a thin ice. But he wouldn’t stop. Nothing _would_ stop him. Once he had the Ankaran Sarcophagus at his disposal, he would be invincible.

He would tame Los Angeles and the rest of the world at their feet.

The unmistakable sound of stilettos clicking from outside his office pulled the Prince back from his musings. He adopted his usual indifference mask, readjusted his tie and continued working on his paper when he heard the doors clicked open. LaCroix didn’t even bother to look up to confirm the identity of the visitor.

“As you can see I’m quite occupied right now, fledgling. Whatever business you wish to inquire, do make it quick, please,” LaCroix addressed stiffly to the newborn vampire. All of his attention was still solely on the paper until he saw her dropping something on the table.

It was the werewolf blood.

Automatically, he stopped writing. It was palpable that the Prince was greatly annoyed by the interruption especially remembering what he’d instructed her to do earlier and LaCroix expected for the fledgling followed it to the letter. He simply didn’t have room for disobedience among his employees.

But he was a Ventrue for Christ’s sake, the oldest and, at least in his head, the most well-respected clan of all, he would not lash out like an angsty teenager on puberty. If anything, the man should be the quintessential poster boy self-control.

So LaCroix kept his anger at bay and simply took a deep breath. He then shifted his gaze to the woman before him whose the color of her lips immediately reminded him of the blood.

“Miss…” What was her last name again? Goulart? Gomez? Gordon?

_Godard._

“Godard, if my memory still serves me correctly I didn’t ask for you to deliver the blood pack _straight_ into my office,” he said, his British lilt heavy in the air. “So, do pray tell, which part of ‘leave it in your mailbox’ that you didn’t understand, hmm?”

Godard was all and ignored his question and she had the _gall_ to roll her eyes. “Oh, I completely understood everything you instructed me to do, alright? Except when this isn’t the thing you’re looking for.”

"Pardon?”

“This isn’t the werewolf blood?” gesturing to the blood pack, she gave him a _duh? I thought it’s obvious?_ expression. “I’m sure you can tell, can’t you, Your Highness?”

The multi-hyphenated Prince narrowed his eyes slightly in the comfort of his leather chair. It had been a very long time since someone called him Your Highness he’d nearly forgotten how much he missed his days as a royalty. Sure, he still deserved to wear the title, but it was different now. There was no place for royalties in America.

But he was getting sidetracked and Godard was right, he should be able to identify it by now. He had been too engrossed in keeping emotions in check that he missed such important details. It was quite embarrassing, really, to be caught off guard like that by a newborn vampire, nonetheless. LaCroix made a mental note not to let such thing happen in the future.

LaCroix discarded his Montblanc pen aside. His eyes, pale and cold, took a swift glance at the item on his desk table, a complete stark contrast to the crimson substance that seemed to be swirling constantly like the ocean.

“Rat’s blood,” LaCroix deduced easily, he didn’t bother to mask his irritation this time. This was bad indeed. Christ, he could feel his headache multiplying by five right now. “How did you know this is a sham?”

Godard shrugged in response. “I didn’t feel it’s…” she waved her hand back and forth as if trying to find the correct word. “Pull, to put it simply. As soon as I realized this, I knew there is something wrong about it.”

He’d almost forgotten that Godard and he shared the same blood, so it was obvious how she seemed repulsed by the rat’s blood. It was only natural. LaCroix himself only consumed the blood of the nobles from around the world for years now, particularly from the Belgian royal family and several French nobles, all shipped from their respective countries by his agents all the way to wherever he was staying.

The French were still his favorite flavor though. They tasted quite extraordinary.

They tasted like home.

Realizing he was once again encapsulated in his own thoughts, LaCroix cleared his throat.

“Well, in that case, you did the right thing by bringing this directly to my attention, dear childe,” LaCroix took a deep breath, a hand massaging his temple. “And I have to say, I apologize if I acted quite… uncouth to you earlier, but know that your service is much appreciated and I will personally compensate you accordingly.”

The young woman shook her head. “Save it. I have no interest in your money.”

LaCroix ceased as he was about to pull a blank check from the drawer, his brows drew together in puzzlement. “No?”

“No, I’m more interested to hear what’s our next move is considering the blood is still out there.”

This was most certainly new. Of all the people he had employed, never had he met someone who blatantly refused to be paid. This was certainly new and it very much confused the Prince.

Just what exactly was she playing here? _If_ this was a game at all. LaCroix had learned it the hard way that nothing is free in this world. Everyone would always want something out of everyone, a favor for a favor, an eye for an eye. Though he was curious to find out what her intent was, LaCroix knew better than to indulge his curiosity. If anything, never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.

So, he pushed his questions aside. For the moment.

“Yes, well, unfortunately until the matter has been dealt with, none of us can rest easy. This is the fate of the Masquerade that we’re discussing here, if we don’t get our hands on it…”

“We’re screwed,” Godard finished it for him.

“Screwed is an understatement,” he rectified. “If the local tabloid manages to expose this knowledge to the public just as we feared, it could generate a mass riot against both the Masquerade and the werewolves as well. We _need_ to act fast.”

She nodded her head, much like a young boxer to instructions. “Okay. Where can I start then?”

He held up his hand. “I appreciate your dedication, but there’s no need for it. You’ve done enough for now, fledgling. My agents will take care of this from no--”

“Your agents?” the woman interjected him, much to LaCroix’s surprise and dislike. “I’m sorry, but are you sure that’s wise?”

The Prince’s pale brows creased. “I beg your pardon?”

“They could have tipped someone off from the clinic for all I know. Because there’s _no_ way they could have known I was coming otherwise,” Godard accused then placed her hands on the table, leaning forward that her bangs kissed the apex of her lashes. “Are you sure it’s wise sending them back instead of me?”

The Prince chuckled wryly, as if when an adult hearing a kid asking a ridiculous question.

“Nonsense.” LaCroix had known his agents for decades and they have never crossed him. The ones who did have long been sleeping with the fishes. “The word dishonesty doesn’t exist in the LaCroix Foundation vocabulary. And so does the _people_ that practice it. If you catch my meaning,” he pressed the words intentionally as if to get the message across.

Godard raised her hands in defeat. But judging from the look on her face, it didn’t seem she was about to let the subject rest.

“Okay, so they can be trusted, but are you sure that you want to take another chance with them knowing that they, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, were the ones who caused all of this?” she asked again, her expression serious.

The Prince shot her a dirty glare. The kind that usually sent his enemies cowering, though there she still stood there, unfazed.

“Are you implying that my people are a mere bunch of incompetents?” LaCroix’s nostrils flared. He rose from his seat, his height easily towered her by a solid five inch that she had to tilt her head to follow his gaze.

To his dislike, the woman merely raised her chin higher, exuding a sheer defiance. Her short bob hair, unruly and disarray, merely accommodated a certain roguish feminine look that was both intimidating and daring.

“That sounds pretty much like it, isn’t it?” Was her response, her deep amber eyes piercing straight into his.

“How dare you to insult me?!” he spat, anger running hot in his cold veins. “Who do you think you are?”

Godard shrugged again, but oh-so-innocently this time. “I was not insulting you, per se, more like those of your subordinates. Look, I’m sorry if I offended you, but admit it, sir, none of this could have happened if they hadn’t screwed things up. You need me.”

LaCroix then mimicked her movement and tilted forward until their faces were mere inches. Not once her gaze faltered or did he notice any sign to back away from the woman. Which was admirable had they weren’t in the middle of a stare-off like this.

He observed her, the way a man when being faced with an enigma. His eyes followed every constellation of her freckles then down to the curve of her lips. A strange specimen, she was, and a pretty one too, even he had to admit. But oh, didn’t she make his head churn.

“What are you trying to pursue here, Godard?” the Prince murmured lowly, though sounding more like he was saying it to himself. Had he been quieter, it would have sounded like a whisper.

“Ever heard of the song Take A Chance On Me?” she cooed, her voice dripping like honey. LaCroix was about to blatantly blow a fuse when she interrupted. “Now, think of it this way, most kind sir, imagine if the Titanic had survived the iceberg, do you think that White Star Line would seriously rehire every single one of the crew that had nearly sunk their ship? Do you seriously think they’d give them another chance?”

LaCroix was left in utter silence. For a few moments, he furiously racked his mind, thinking just how to deal with her rudeness. He could easily Dominate her and tell her to stitch her mouth. It’d be too easy, in fact, as he had Dominated a handful of a fellow Ventrue in the past, but at the same time, the Prince could sense the truth in her words and it only sparked conflicts within him. In more ways than one, Godard had a point. Again. As much as he hated to admit defeat, he just couldn’t disagree with her.

He then shared a glance with his hefty loyal friend/bodyguard. Putting on a blank expression like usual, the Sheriff said nothing but LaCroix knew him well enough to know exactly what he was thinking.

When LaCroix had employed the Brujah to take care of the journalists, he knew the Sheriff disapproved that plan to a degree. And now LaCroix had to pay the price for his action. He rarely miscalculated his movements per se, and when he did, he would take every chance he could get to undo the mess he’d done. Even if it meant taking his chance with her.

Taking a deep breath, the young Ventrue Prince settled for his decision. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down, feeling very much relieved for the distance between him and Godard.

“So be it then,” he remarked, his tone perfectly reserved, hands steepled under his chiseled chin. “You want to prove yourself? Then by all means. I’m granting you a full authorization over this task.”

He then provided the fledgling with the bullet points details and Godard seemed to heed him attentively, noting several important information on her notebook.

“You may seek further information from my agents should you see fit,” LaCroix added, handing her a business card that he produced from his breast pocket. “But other than that, you are on your own. And don’t come back until this all has been resolved, do you understand?”

“Crystal clear,” Godard proclaimed confidently as she deposited her notebook and the business card inside her coat pockets. She turned to leave for the doors without another word.

“Oh and, Godard?”

She stopped mid-tracks and turned to his direction. “Yes?”

“Don’t let me down,” LaCroix frowned. “You _don’t_ want to let me down,” he emphasized. “I’m giving you this one chance and one chance only, if you somehow managed to screw this up, there’ll be consequences.”

It was her final warning. Though if the fledgling seemed affected by it, she didn’t show it.

“It won’t happen.”

And with that, she was gone.

Godard returned three days later to his office late at night. This time, she came unannounced though LaCroix recognized her smell and the rattle of her high-heeled shoes like the back of his hand.

When she approached him on his desk, it was almost impossible for the Prince not to stare. She walked much like a stunner, but with the attitude of a cold goddess ready to smite and awe you at any moment. LaCroix bet if there were people in this very room, they all would have looked at her. In her hand was the blood pack-- the werewolf blood pack where Godard gingerly slid on top of his desk table. Not once the two broke eye contact.

She didn’t have to say anything. Her eyes told him all, glimmering with a sense of pride. The woman winked at him. _I was right, Your Highness_. He imagined her saying. And she was, indeed, right. LaCroix had doubted her abilities and here she conquered his doubts like they were nothing but pebbles on the road. And LaCroix was impressed, if not, he knew he needed to be more cautious around her. She was not someone you could underestimate, he had learned his lesson.

Ever since then, Sebastian LaCroix knew that Mary Godard was bound to be troublesome.


	2. Chapter 2

Another day, another headache that the Camarilla Prince had to suffer. He massaged his temple. His veins had been long dead and cold and yet LaCroix could somehow feel them throbbing in pain. A two century year old habit that he somehow couldn’t get rid of.

He skimmed over the papers in hands once more. Thinking how and where did he do wrong that one of their most loyal and prestigious benefactors decided to back away from funding the annual LaCroix Foundation gala on such short notice.

“He blatantly refused to help us fund for the gala?” LaCroix asked partially in disbelief and frustration. They couldn’t just cancel or push back the event on such short notice, that would give his organization a bad press and the last thing the Prince wanted was a taint on his name.

No, he would get the money-- he needed to. Whatever it took. He ran his cold fingers through his blond hair, not very much gave a rat’s ass if it ruined his usual meticulous appearance.

The Prince then gave a questioning look at Mercurio, one of his most trusted agents and ghoul, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Yep. He wouldn’t even take a peek at the proposal. No matter even when I said it was from you,” he answered, his smokey voice gliding through the thick air of the office as he held his rented suit jacket behind his shoulder.

Mercurio sighed, looking as if he had failed him. “Sorry, boss. I know how much the annual gala means a lot for our media coverage, but I tried whatever methods I could think of on him-- Hell, I even made a proposition, but he just wouldn’t buy it.” Right, LaCroix felt that information was flatout irrelevant. “That guy is as stiff as a wood plank, I’m telling you.”

LaCroix shifted his gaze back to the papers, resisting the urge to crumple and tear them to smithereens but he knew that anger would do him no good.

So, he settled the papers down and rose from his seat. _Breathe,_ his head beckoned as he peered through the window, where the vast scenery of downtown Los Angeles laid at his feet. _You were one of Napoleon’s most decorated officer, a short fund is nothing against the harrowing of Waterloo._

Yet, naturally, his head refused to cooperate with him. Just like everything around him; the Anarchs, the Sabbat, the city and now his benefactor. No matter what he did, right or wrong, people would naturally ward themselves off from him as if he was a bad omen or something. Maybe his sire had been right when he told LaCroix that he had a mind like a minefield; that it was nearly impossible to try to dance around his thoughts without the fear of treading on the wrong ground and explode.

Maybe that what had sent people off.

“Maybe we should have sent the new girl instead,” suggested Mercurio candidly from somewhere behind him. “Christ knows Mary does better in flirting more than I do. Or maybe everything.”

“Perhaps,” LaCroix gave a half-hearted shrug. Though deep down, he knew Godard would have aced this had he sent her instead of Mercurio. “But this is the company’s business that we’re dealing with here, not some petty errands that a paper boy can do for you. Our affairs are strictly confidential.”

Even without looking, LaCroix somehow could hear the human’s frown.

“Even from her?”

“Even from her.”

“You don’t trust her, then?” Mercurio questioned, sounding genuinely curious instead of accustory.

The Prince gave him a side-eye glance and chuckled. “Trust, my dear, Mercurio, is a dangerous game. The foundation of every man’s downfall. I’ve walked this earth for centuries now and trusting no one is the key to why I’m still standing here to this day,” he shot Mercurio an apologetic gaze. “No offense, of course, but the world is full of vipers and rats. One must maintain one’s safety in order to survive.”

There was a brief pause from the Prince’s ghoul before he broke it. “That’s, uh… that’s a pretty thoughtful thought, boss. Considering how sleazy the business world can be. Heck, you can’t even trust your own family these days.”

“ _Thus,_ my point.”

Mercurio nodded understandingly at that. “But permission to speak freely, if I may, boss?”

Curiosity drew LaCroix’s brows together. He then looked over to Mercurio from over his shoulder. The man looked somewhat groggy but managed to keep his posture straight. And the Prince was all and curious to hear what his human had to say to him. Especially if it was concerning Godard, he wanted to know what of his thoughts of her.

“Granted,” LaCroix replied with a faint nod.

Mercurio took a sharp breath. “Look, I know this is none of my business, and you probably know that I’m not an excellent judge of character, but that girl? Godard? One hell of a broad. I mean, more like in an ass-kicking way, of course. I was there when she pushed the guy who’d stolen the werewolf blood from the fifth floor _after_ she locked her lips with him.” Enthusiasm was palpable on his face. “If that is not the definition of badassery then I dunno what is.”

A temptress, she was, and the murderous kind. That was an even deadlier combination than mixing Cesium with water yet LaCroix was ever more concerned with the locking lips part, much to his surprise.

“And your point _is_?” he prompted, a hard edge on his voice which was clearly unintentional. LaCroix was glad that it didn’t scare Mercurio away.

“My point is, she’s a keeper. I’m not asking you to trust her, but I think she could be a valuable agent of yours, boss. She’s… that girl is something, I’m telling ya. She’s the real deal.”

Unlike LaCroix, it seemed people naturally drew to her like a bee to a flower. Mercurio was his ghoul and yet here he was worshipping the girl like she was Venus in furs. Not that he was complaining, per se. To think about it, who was he to complain?

“A fair point,” he said with a thin smile. “Was that all you’d like to convey, Mercurio?

The man considered LaCroix’s question for a few moments, then shrugged. “I guess, that’s all. You’re the one calling the shots around here, anyway. As I said, you don’t have to trust her, but give the girl a chance, maybe? She done good so far, didn’t she?”

 _Take a chance on me?_ She had pretty much asked the same question a week before. And he had taken that chance on her, he had gambled his odds for the pleasure of his _curiosity_. A mere whim, he called it. Only because he was intrigued by the nature of a Mary Godard. And it was dangerous.

In his line of work, betting on every uncertain opportunity is a sure shot way to lose his empire. Any smart business people know that playing safe bets is to minimize risks and limit losses. Though it was only fortunate that the outcome of her mission had worked out well in his favor, and though he knew she was capable of performing his dirty work, the woman was distracting as she was dangerous.

Would it be wise for LaCroix to place another bet on her for his own means?

“Where is she now?” LaCroix wondered aloud, his pale irises observing the clouds that had begun to form in the pitch black sky. Chances were it was going to rain soon.

“Uh, I think she’s down at the Last Round the last time I saw her. Want me to go and fetch her here for you?”

LaCroix’s lips twisted in displeasure. The Last Round? _What in the bloody hell is she doing there?_ She was a Ventrue for Christ’s sake, her place was amongst people with class like him, not some two-bit crowd like the Anarchs and their so-called honcho Nines Rodriguez.

“Please do. And do make it snappy, yes? The sooner she gets out that godforsaken place, the better.” LaCroix suppressed a shudder just thinking of the establishment alone. He hoped it would burn to the ground.

Or maybe he should have someone burn it down, instead...

The ghoul gave him a two-finger salute and ran for the doors. “Aye, aye, boss.”

By the time Mercurio left, LaCroix watched as torrents of rain began falling furiously from the somber Los Angeles skies. He sighed softly.

There was no going back after this.


	3. Chapter 3

“Prince LaCroix.”

"Miss Godard,” LaCroix greeted back in his customary flat but courteous tone.

He then riveted his gaze to her from his paperwork. Which turned out to be a _huge_ mistake when LaCroix saw her standing there in a strapless black off-shoulder midi dress that hugged her slender form like a second skin, the kind that accentuated her curves and ivory skin. Her beloved suede coat nestled methodically around her arm.

And LaCroix merely swallowed hard in his chair.

“Mercurio told me you wanted to see me,” Godard said as she ran her perfectly manicured fingers along the surface of his desk table, her eyes studiously gauging for his reaction. “How may I be of assistance?”

The Prince shifted ever so slightly, a movement which Godard, thankfully, seemed to miss. His stomach felt like it was twisting into knots. For a moment, he had no single idea how to answer that and the implication behind her question screwed off some parts of his brains.

LaCroix silently cursed to himself. Gods, the things this woman did to him. With those depthless eyes of hers and that coy smile. It was impossible not to be pulled in it-- but no. Godard was a means to an end, a cog in the machine. She was _nothing._

He elected to ignore her advances and feigned an uninterested look instead. “I have another task in mind for you. One that I feel should be given to my most promising young agent yet. But before we dive straight into business, a word, if I may?”

Goddard stared at him with an arched brow, confusion apparent on her face though she simply nodded in acquiesce.

“Well, it has come to my attention that you have become quite a patron to a certain establishment within the area, fledgling. Now, had this been another place, I wouldn’t have brought this matter to the conversation, but the Last Round? Where those filthy Anarchs are crawling like insects? Christ’s sake, Godard, what were you thinking?” LaCroix grimaced, his voice as cold as the color of his eyes.

The Camarilla Prince then gripped the armrests of his seat and leaned forward, his eyes narrowed sharply. The kind when a soldier was about to take a shot. ”Dare I ask just what is exactly the nature of your visits?”

Goddard’s expression began as a confusion that morphed into attentiveness that then burst itself into a full blown laughter upon hearing the Prince’s question. Her rich voice echoed through the air like a spilling symphony, head thrown back like a little child and LaCroix simply sat there, with deep lines formed on his forehead. Positively annoyed by her reaction.

His pale irises flashed with icy fire. “And what seems to be _so_ amusing?” LaCroix could barely keep his anger at bay. To defy him was one thing, but to laugh at him, to mock him as if he was an insignificant individual bereft of all titles was an entirely different thing.

“ _You,_ ” Goddard answered without a beat, her hand flew up to her mouth as if decency had just entered the traffic of her head. “Oh, Your Highness, surely you’ve heard the saying keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, have you?”

LaCroix felt slightly taken aback by her words, in which he carefully hid it behind his usual calculating, indifference façade.

“Of course, I have. And what is your point?” he persisted, curious as he was annoyed.

“What do you think I’ve been doing there this whole time?” Godard questioned intelligently. Her graceful hand had perched its way on her hip this time. “You don’t seriously think I’ve been busy sucking up their asses behind your back this whole time, are you?” her voice a parody of hurt.

Her questions sparked a flare within him. An ancient sensation that chewed on his pride and ego, left him riven of his backhanded replies as LaCroix merely looked at her, his mouth parted ever so slightly by the newfound realization. The scowl on his face ebbed away.

My God, he felt like a proper fool. One of the consequences of being too trusting of one’s self was that LaCroix would always be suspicious of everyone and lo and behold, how this one surprisingly backfired on him. Once again, the girl had him in the stranglehold of her native wit.

“If you’re interested to know, the Anarchs aren’t planning on anything radically hazardous at the moment,” she announced, beaming subtly at him. “But there are whispers about a certain suspicious artifact that has been circulating around LA that seem to pique their interests. I haven’t managed to find out what it is though.”

Sebastian sighed and stood from his chair. Some part of him wanted to apologize for barking up the wrong tree, but his attention was quickly grappled by the mention of the artifact. The Ankaran Sarcophagus, without a doubt. It wasn’t nearly surprising to know that the sarcophagus had already become the talk of the town among his fellow Kindred.

Which was also worrying. It was only a matter of time before one of them could get their hands on it, assuming that every sect and clan would be eager to get their hands on it for whatever purpose they had in mind. He needed to act fast.

“To be perfectly frank, Miss Godard, the task that I will be giving you is regarding that certain artifact.”

She glanced up at him, curiosity shone brightly in her eyes. “What is it?”

LaCroix walked around the table, his hands fixed behind his back and directly to her. He felt her gaze following his every move as he, vice versa. Now that they stood face-to-face, the Prince briefly pondered whether this was a good idea when her perfume began to invade his nostrils.

He inwardly cast those reckless thoughts away and focused on anything but her.

“How do you feel about examining a sarcophagus these days?”

“Hold on,” Godard said after a brief pause. “you’re not sending me to Egypt, are you?”

“No, no, there is a cargo ship that was towed into port recently, the Elizabeth Dane _._ My agents claimed the ship is carrying an artifact known as the Ankaran Sarcophagus, but even they only know so little about it. It seems the authority is keen on withholding such information to themselves.”

“Why, that’s pretty fishy, if you ask me,” she commented. “Any idea why?”

LaCroix sighed. “So far, nihil. Though I have received several reports and complaints from our fellow Kindred of an uneasiness they feel in the air ever since the ship’s arrival.”

“And just in time the ship happens to carry a damned sarcophagus with them.” LaCroix let the woman connected the dots herself.

“I don’t believe in superstition, but this can’t be just a mere coincidence, sir.”

“Now, I’m not one to predicate a decision based on a conjecture, so what I need is a fact-- and more importantly, evidence that the occurrences on the Dane were not supernatural and in no way related to this Ankaran Sarcophagus. Regardless, _do not_ under any circumstances open the sarcophagus, Miss Godard. If you know what’s best for you.”

"Make sense. I’ve got enough curse in me to last me a lifetime, anyway,” Godard grinned cutely. “So, I’ll just take a look at it and report back to you?”

“More or less. I also require what the police have compiled thus far and the ship’s cargo manifest.” She nodded where he went very serious all of the sudden.

“And I suppose I don’t need to remind you of the importance of discretion for this task, do I?”

Godard nodded once again, though this time in the fashion of when a teenager is being counseled by an adult. “I understand loud and clear, sir. Wouldn’t want the police to sniff us out like some hapless bones.”

“Precisely.” The fledgling had more wits and skills than he gave her credit for, alright. Maybe she’d play her role just fine in this grand scheme of his. “See to it that you follow my instructions to the letter and we’re going to get along just fine.”

“Trust me, Your Highness, the last thing we’ll become are enemies,” she told him this, her voice steady, her gaze unconventionally intense, burning through his sockets as LaCroix could only stare at her, his eyes troubling.

He said nothing. He couldn’t. Staring into her eyes was like trying to tread on the quicksand, if you stay for too long, you’d drown. A guaranteed death, yet he found himself making no effort to escape.  

_“Mr. LaCroix, just to inform you that your car is ready and waiting for you in the lobby.”_

A voice from the intercom quickly broke whatever spell the two were in. LaCroix candidly took a few steps back, silently thanking whatever divine being up there for this impeccable interruption because he wasn’t sure how long he could survive this quicksand that was Mary Godard any longer.

He made his way back around the table and harrumphed. Doing his best to avoid her stare.

“Thank you, Miss Moran. Please inform the driver that I’ll be down shortly,” he replied into the intercom, his tone perfectly reserved despite the war his mind had waged.

“Going somewhere, Your Highness?”

“Yes, I have a business I need to sort out in Hollywood.” He grabbed his scarf from the coat hanger and wore it around his pale neck. “One of our benefactors has decided to annul his contribution to our this year’s annual gala on short notice. A dreadful shame. Perhaps my visit could alter his decision.”

“Ah,” remarked Godard as she put her coat on, understanding the implication behind his words. Fascination and mischief coalesced on her face like a cosmic collision. “A wise move on your part, my Prince. One look straight into your eyes and I’m sure he would have a hard time denying your requests from now on.”

For the first time that night, the Prince allowed himself to smirk. “My thoughts exactly.” He motioned towards the doors with a respectful gesture. “Come now, we have no time to spare-- and Sheriff, make sure you keep an eye out of our generous benefactor that he doesn’t go anywhere before I arrive at his office.”

With that, the Sheriff nodded mutely and disappeared into thin air. LaCroix had no qualms his loyal bodyguard had probably arrived at his destination by now.

The two then strode their way out of the office. Godard followed closely beside him, their steps matched in-sync, almost like a well-rehearsed dance as they headed toward the elevator. He let her do the honour to call the lift, not wanting to get caught in her crosshair.

“It must be exciting, isn’t it?” Godard asked as they waited. Her visage facing forward, giving LaCroix a perfect view of her elegant profile. Under the dim lights of the hallway, her brown hair glinted like spun gold.

“What is?”

“To possess such a high level of Dominate like yours,” she smiled, warm and enticing. A mere second later, the elevator dinged its arrival. The pair filed in inside the confined space in an orderly fashion where Godard settled comfortably opposite him in the corner. Her back to the walls, her hands relaxing on the handrail. The lift began its descent from the penthouse floor.

“To easily bend someone to your will. I’ve had a hard time using that certain power from the get-go. It’s infuriating.”

LaCroix lifted his head and regarded her with deep astonishment. Was this some sort of a trick or could their minds actually run on the same wavelength?

“It wasn’t easy for me at first as well,” LaCroix admitted, words spilling out of his mouth on its own accord. “It took me decades to hone this power alone, Miss Godard. And like any other skill in this world, the only way to develop it is through practices. As much as tedious the whole process could be. If anything, you can’t run before you can walk.”

Godard grinned widely at him, her eyes laughing. “My, my, Prince LaCroix, you never told me that you have been moonlighting as a motivational speaker this whole time?”

LaCroix merely hummed at her question with an easy smile, silently liking how this conversation flowed between them. It had been a long time-- too long, in fact, since the last time LaCroix had a decent conversation with anyone. And it was a quite nice change of pace.

“You’re right about keep on practicing, though. It hasn’t been nearly a week since I’ve become one of your kind and here I am grumbling about something I haven’t fully grasped,” Godard let out a quiet huff of laughter. “You must think I’m dumb.”

“Hardly. A fool rarely admits that they are one.” And it was the truth. A fool wouldn’t have managed to blow out the Sabbat's warehouse undetected, a fool wouldn’t have pushed someone down the balcony after she kissed them.

And a fool wouldn’t certainly look at him like that and bat their eyelashes the way that made the Prince froze under her striking gaze.

“Is that a compliment, I hear?”

The Prince rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it, fledgling.”

She giggled, tucking a few strands of her hair behind her ear. Earning her a stern look. “I expected nothing less, honestly. I know how it would be like for your reputation if they found out that the Prince gives away compliments as easy as he Dominates the others.”

The next thing he knew, Godard strutted closer to him in those heels, the back of her hands on her hips, wrists bent as she stopped a few inches before him. LaCroix swore if he still had his heart, it would be beating just now.

LaCroix straightened his posture, tilted his chin down to meet her gaze. His eyes intent. She inched closer to his ear, tipping on her toes slightly to follow his height.

“Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure that this’ll be our little secret,” Godard whispered in his ear and he thought he’d been struck by a lightning.

The elevator sounded its arrival at the lobby. Godard withdrew herself from him, seemingly unfazed by what had just transpired between them and simply sauntered past by him out of the lift, almost twirling.

LaCroix closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. He felt as if he’d just been freed from a dazzling spell and now he was stunned. This was disastrous. He couldn’t let himself be swayed by her like this anymore. Godard was supposed to be his beck and call, not… not...

The Prince stopped himself before his thoughts would further lead him astray. He needed to be more cautious around her, put his guard up. He hadn’t found out what exactly her motives were and everyone would _always_ have motives.

Maybe he should have killed her instead when he had the chance just to save him from all of this nuisance.

He followed her out to the lobby before the doors could close on him. Godard was waiting for him, a knowing smile framing her face that had him thinking about what happened in the elevator. But LaCroix kept his cool and opted to act as if nothing happened. Even when she took her place to walk beside him.

“Anyway, did you know the word Dominate is derived from the Latin word _Dominus?_ Which translates to the English tongue as lord or master, _”_ she piped up.

LaCroix did his best to ignore her stare and kept his gaze forward. “What an interesting information,” he replied with magnificent boredom but she didn’t seem to notice this.

“The more you know,” Godard said in a singsong voice. “I guess it’s fitting then, isn’t it?”

“And how is that?“ LaCroix asked, unable to resist her.

“Considering Latin is the language of the dead people nowadays, no wonder you speak it so... fluently.”

LaCroix stopped his tracks. Just when this woman would stop to surprise him?

Eventually, LaCroix let himself once again smiled at, again, one of her idiosyncrasies. In all of his two centuries of existence, he could positively declare that he might have never anyone quite like her along the way.

“Well, if you think about it, that may be the case,” LaCroix said and Godard instantly fell into a chuckle before the two stepped out into the rain.

In the downtown lights, the rain glowed neon like the Fountains of Bellagio. He saw as a couple scrambled into a bus just across the street, its tires hissed loudly even beneath the sound of the rain before his attention shifted to his driver who approached the pair with a large umbrella. Providing a temporary shelter for them as LaCroix made his way to his Rolls Royce. His Berluti pantoffels felt soggy underneath.

A sudden realization stirred once LaCroix realized he’d have to leave Godard in the rain like this. He turned to her, noticing how her hair and coat were all damp from the rain yet she was smiling from ear-to-ear as she reached her hand out from under the umbrella, looking absolutely in delight.

“I guess I’ll better get going then. I have a ship to catch, anyway,” Godard pulled her coat tighter around her. Sighing contentedly as a raindrop migrated down from her hairline to her lashes.

“I suppose that’s the best,” LaCroix concurred, though he couldn’t tell if he said it more to himself or her and quelled the temptation to wipe the rain away from her eyelid with his thumb. “Good evening, Mary. And stay safe.”

“ _Bonsoir_ to you too, Prince LaCroix,” Mary gave him a respectful nod. “Stay safe.”

She disappeared into the rain before he could get the chance to say anything else. Which was probably for the best, though he secretly lamented the loss of her presence. As much as infuriating and frustratingly slick the girl could be, LaCroix hated to admit but he was starting get used to Mary’s company.

And now that he was comfortably seated in his car, warm and dry, LaCroix couldn’t help but think of her.

At this rate, despite not knowing yet her intentions on him, he knew well only a pure ruthless, wicked soul would have the heart to hurt her.

And alas, LaCroix was devoid of one.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the thunder that woke him.

Lightning split and cracked behind the thick blinds of his penthouse suite, the sound of the pouring rain mercilessly beating against the windowpane. And LaCroix only laid there in his bed, listening in, hyper-aware of the continuous movement of his surroundings, his eyes fluttered open.

All but except that he couldn’t move. Not even a twitch of a muscle. No matter how hard he tried or how his mind commanded to _move_ , his limbs refused to cooperate with him.

Frustration seemed to bleed from his pores when he felt an overwhelming weight on his chest and how it only sank him further and further into the mattress, pinning him down. Now he was doubled over with panic. Never in LaCroix’s entire life had he felt so helpless, so terrible the way he did now. He was a fighter; a soldier, nonetheless, but this battle felt a little one-sided on his part and he wanted nothing more than to scream his exasperation in the air, to writhe and shook his entire being until he could feel a movement. If only he could easily Dominate his own limbs to move the way he did to Kindred and Kine alike.

Then as if this affliction didn’t already cause a riot in his head, he saw _him_. The demon from his past. Creeping, looming on the edge of his vision with his fangs, bloodied and sharp bared open just for him.

LaCroix, in all his paralyzed state, could only stare as the menacing shadow crept closer toward his bed. Black smoke curling around his form that it was impossible to fully make out his appearance, save for his eyes. Those all-consuming, golden eyes that had haunted the Prince’s waking hours for centuries were now coming back.

 _“Do you know the difference between you and a hound, Sebastian?_ ” he thought he heard him whispered, his voice like hearing a broken record he’d long abandoned. “ _The hound doesn’t bite the hand that feeds you._ ”

 _Go away!_ He would have screamed had he had the capacity. Telling him to leave him be, to grant him _peace_ , but the ever the first syllable the Prince wouldn't make it past his lips.

He was coming ever closer now that LaCroix could smell his charred skin and how LaCroix would have gagged at the vomit-inducing smell.

_“Why now that’s ironic. Did you react similarly when you set my soul on fire? Did you even flinch when I desperately cried for mercy?”_

The Prince did what he could to ignore his whispers and willed to move again, channelling all of his energy and concentrating on every part of his body he could desperately reach.

Finally, after what it felt like eons, LaCroix could feel his fingers made the barest move, his leg brushing against the silk duvet. Everything was starting to functioning back in order all the while the-- _his_ demon, much to his utmost relief, have had disappeared completely from the chamber.

He remained sprawled out on the bed a few more minutes after that. Letting his brains get used to the sensation of having his body back, feeling his breathing slowly returning to normal. LaCroix could have only imagined if he still possessed a heart, how it would have been thumping loudly in his ears, but there were only the rain and the roars of thunder. And for a fleeting moment, LaCroix wished he still had one. Immortality had never tasted so bitter.

 _Fucking hell,_ LaCroix sighed a helpless sigh, running a shaky hand through his hair and wondered when would this routine in the agony, the one where he had kept it all bottled to himself for decades, cease?

Because it had been going on for too goddamn long and he wasn’t sure if his body could take it any longer. Immortality or not, a vampire Prince or not, his body and mind would eventually decay one day from this. They could only take so much.

But for now, LaCroix simply, as he always did, pushed the matter into the back of his head and got up from the bed. The kind of bed befitting a king where he could happily crawl onto it and rest his indolent, royal head without a care in the world, except LaCroix had found so little comfort in the plush mattress over the years. He didn’t think he ever could.

He blindly reached for the blinds remote on the nightstand, flick the switch and watched blankly as the curtains rolled open before making a beeline to the bathroom.

LaCroix did his usual evening routine with his mind flying into another universe, not knowing when it would come back. He showered and scrubbed, and scrubbed his hair insane thinking it could shake whatever devil’s curse plaguing his mind and shaved a day’s worth of stubble. Each movement was made almost robotically. His eyes keeping trained to his jawline rather than at the telltale signs of his deteriorating mental state.

It wasn't like anyone would comment how fairly uncharacteristic he looked tonight nor LaCroix would even let them.

When he left his suite, already donned in his usual suit and double-breasted overcoat, fair hair neatly slicked back just the way he preferred over the past century, the Prince found the Sheriff standing at his usual spot beside his door, vigilant and dutiful, stone-faced and frightening. The perfect worst nightmare for anyone who's willing to go on LaCroix's bad side.

The creature then gazed down at his master and the barest of emotion flicker on his ashen face. In LaCroix's head, he could almost hear the question his friend wanted to voice.

“I am fine, my friend,” he assured, if not, tried. His own hand made a neat sweep across his hair as he exhaled sharply, his golden cufflinks blinking in the corridor lights. “There was only a minor inconvenience with my sleeping arrangements, that's all. No need to raise a fuss.”

The Sheriff wasn't remotely convinced. LaCroix knew well it wasn't exactly the first time his bodyguard had ever seen his master looking rather out of sorts and troubled like this, but he also knew that he knew it was better to let the matter rest than to pry. If there was one thing the Camarilla Prince abhorred so much was when one gets a little too nosey to his liking.

LaCroix craned his head when he saw figures approaching from the other end the corridor.

“Good evening, Mr LaCroix, sir.” It was one of his personal assistants, Nancy Moran, greeting him in her customary high-pitched voice that had caused him headaches once upon a time. Behind her, a few of the chambermaids followed with an arsenal of cleaning tools.

“Shall the chambermaids tidy up your chambers for the evening?”

“Yes, by all means.” LaCroix then turned and looked at the chambermaids respectfully. He was nothing if not a perfect gentleman on the outside. “You have my gratitude, ladies.”

With that, he strolled off the other way, the Sheriff dutifully followed. Hands clasped behind his back, oozing that otherworldly mannered charm of his as he passed them by that unbeknownst to LaCroix, made the chambermaids sigh dreamily on the spot. Very much like a Roman god amongst a flock of curious maidens.

“Err… how are you feeling today, sir?” Nancy asked again, picking her words carefully as she fell into steps beside him.

LaCroix gave a dismissive wave. “I am quite fine, Miss Moran.” The edge in his voice was unmistakable and the way his eyes narrowed was an obvious give away to make her drop the subject. Thankfully, his assistant easily caught the hints and nodded, visibly tensed.

“What's our schedule for tonight?” he asked instead. If anything, at least work could distract him from his winding thoughts.

Nancy straightened up, business-like and clutched the pen tucked behind her ear as she peered over the leather journal book in hand.

“Err…” There was a rapid rustling of papers. “You have an interview with Allen Rossbury from Los Angeles Today at eigh--”

“Inform him that I have an urgent meeting on short notice and that we will have to reschedule,” LaCroix interjected. He didn't think he could survive the night being bombarded with questions regarding his personal thoughts on the non-profit organisation that promoted access to sanitation after what happened.

“Oh... Okay.” Nancy crossed the journalist's name from the list as they entered his office, coming in behind LaCroix and the Sheriff. “A social gathering with Mayor Bettany and council at 9:00 pm sharp, a meeting with the financial team concerning the budgeting for the annual gala at 11:00 pm and… another meeting with Ming Xiao from the Kuei-Jin in Chinatown at 2:30 am.”

LaCroix, who had now seated on his rightful, leather throne, darted his eyes up to her facial expression and stayed there. He observed, as if studying something from a petri dish, and waited for her microexpression to betray her neutral, albeit slightly anxious demeanor. If anything, LaCroix wanted to know where her stance was regarding his alliance with the Kuei-Jin-- not that it should be much of a concern for him, per se, a glint of antagonism from her and he would personally send her to meet Caine himself.

The change in her face, fortunately, never came and LaCroix dropped his suspicion toward her at the drop of a hat. He thought he heard her release a shaky relief.

There was a knock on the door.

“You may come in.” And entered one of the servants carrying a tray of a golden baroque style chalice. The rich smell of the Elder Vitae blood glided through the office air, mingled with the bergamot air freshener and the faint scent of ink and paper. It was intoxicating and LaCroix felt his mouth involuntarily water at this, betraying his neutral demeanor.

After what he had to go through earlier, blood was the only drug he needed to score.

The Prince grabbed the chalice from the tray, muttered his profound thanks to the Tremere servant and, with impatience trembling within him like the ocean, took a long swig of that sweet taste of blood, rolling it over his tongue. The hot liquid cascaded and burned his throat the way alcohol had used to do for him except it tasted better.

Better, but not enough to incinerate his misery away to dust as the pain was constant and cruel, taunting him the way _he_ had done earlier it made his nerves coil and uncoil.

“Excellent.” LaCroix then diverted his attention back to his assistant. His free hand clenched into a fist under the table for any semblance of control. “Is there anything else?”

“No, I think that's pretty much i-- Oh! Mary Godard called earlier, sir. Said she needed to see you if you have the time tonight.” LaCroix felt his brows migrated to his forehead. All his attention solely glued to the information. “Should I tell Officer Chunks to send her in when she came?”

He found himself nodding right away. “Yes, tell him she has my permission to see me,” he remarked, careful not to let any emotion slipped out in the open. “That'd be all for now, Miss Moran. I thank you for your assistance.”

His assistant answered him with a polite nod, could even be slightly considered as a bow, even, whirled around and made an exit out of his office. Her wedges made the most maddening clacks on the wooden floor.

Within seconds the doors had clicked shut behind her, LaCroix leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his forehead, out of habit, as if a headache was coming.

Or more like _Godard_ was coming. That woman alone worth a century of headaches. It was exhausting enough for LaCroix to put up a modest display of reserved self-control in front of his assistant when his own mind was trying to take him down a peg or two… or three, the idea of putting up the same pretense in front of Godard jarred on his nerves.

LaCroix shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? He was making zero sense and the Prince unapologetically blamed it all on _him._ Even after centuries later, approximately five-thousand six hundred something miles away from Belgium, _he_ was always there; at the back of his mind, in the corner of his chamber, standing like an apparition ready to devour his soul, in his nightmares. _He_ was everywhere, like a fucking cyst.

 _You were always such a fool, de Merode,_ a faint sinister smile snapped over LaCroix’s face. _You do not feed the_ **_lion_ ** _knowing you’ll get bitten._

LaCroix finished the rest of the blood in one gulp and set to work on the papers on his table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I'm back! It's been months since the last time I updated the story and oh boy, I sincerely apologise for it. I had to deal with some health issues a few months back but I'm back now. It really itched me for not being able to write or update anything for months. 
> 
> Anyway, since this chapter is slightly shorter than the previous one and focuses solely on LaCroix's 'affliction', I'm curious to hear what your thoughts about it! And of course, I'll reveal more who 'he' is in the future chapters. Thanks again for the comments and kudos. They really boost my mood like hell!
> 
> (If anyone's wondering, Mary will return on the next chapter)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo, i kind of went all out and wrote almost 4000 words instead? anyway, i hope you'll enjoy this.

As usual, the Mayor's welcome speech had amassed a loud and collective round of applause from his guests.

Standing gallantly by the stage, donned in a navy blue twill suit, complete with the flag lapel pin just above his heart, Mayor Douglas Bettany II then raised his ornate champagne glass. His guests followed.

“Here’s to eternity— may we spend it in as good company as this night finds us, my friends. Salute!”

“Salute!” Echoed the whole hall followed by the sound of glass clinking with one another.

All except for LaCroix. Of who merely watched these people down the rest of their champagne in one swig with a mechanical interest from his table, a half-smoked cigar nestled between his pale hand.

He pulled the cigar from between his lips and puffed out a cloud of smoke from it. In the sea of plenteous faces, his icy blue irises, still heavy from a few hours of fitful rest wandered all the while his mind pondered.

Eternity. Here these people, these _Kine_ , drinking and toasting for immortality without having the basis proof whether it was achievable or not. Laughable. They treated it as if it was a myth, a divine concept which had even sparked a number of arguments from Socrates in Plato's _Phaedo._

For centuries, Kine resorted to all kinds of rituals and pilgrimages to achieve such ability. They sought the ends of the world like mad for the sake of immortality, giving not even a tenth thought of the consequences. And here was LaCroix, with said ability in his hand, probably the only one in the hall since he had not detected any fellow Kindred thus far.

He could turn the entire room into vampires if he wished to. Not just it would gain him a handful of Ventrue allies, but LaCroix would be doing each and one of them a favor to live forever and ever amen, as these Kine would say. Though did they have any idea that life in a timeless vessel wouldn't always be sunshine and rainbows? Of course not. They knew nothing of it yet absolutely craved for it.

LaCroix shifted his attention to the Mayor then, who had just left the stage and retreated back to his table with his wife and fellow council members. The band resumed playing. _You Only Live Twice,_ an old time favorite. Some of the guests began to dance, some resorted to the buffet tables.

“Sebastian LaCroix, now this is the face I wanted to see all day.”

LaCroix craned his head and found the Mayor's brother, Dwayne Bettany approached him with a genial nature despite knowing his crooked reputation. He held a choking resemblance with his younger brother, they almost looked like twins; jet black hair with receding hairline, peppered with grays all over. His eyes, gray more than blue, held a certain warmth reserved only for who he deemed worthy.

LaCroix stubbed his cigar on a nearby ashtray and held out his hand for a handshake.

“Mister Bettany, a pleasure to see you as well, my good sir. How do you do?” he greeted with reserved kindness. Dwayne grasped it firmly and took a seat on the vacant chair next to him.

“Oh, you know, same old same old-- between running a newspaper and a television network it ain't exactly a walk in the park, but I'm all about rolling in the dough. You look well, son.” Dwayne's eyes then traveled down to the Prince's hands. “And still with the no drink policy, I see? I suppose the Rosé didn't tempt you enough? Or is it too basic for a European like you?”

“I hope you don't take my preference not to drink as an insult for your selection of fine liquor,” he answered. No matter how interesting and tempting these liquors to his eyes, but vampirism demanded otherwise. His palette would only accept blood and blood only, though it wasn't like he was complaining.

“Oh no, not at all. I told Dougie we should up the ante for this one and serve them with cognac instead, but you know him. He ain't nothing but a penny pincher at best, especially with the election coming next year.” Dwayne chuckled. LaCroix merely smiled. “And then there is a matter on the budgeting for the wedding.”

“Ah, yes. The wedding.” LaCroix haphazardly racked his brain for a moment. He tried to remember any wedding mentioned before but found none. Christ, this was very uncharacteristic of him.

“Yes, yes, I know how this might be a bore for you as well, boy. I won't hold it against ya. You should hear how Kelly talks about the wedding plans all the time; should we get a flower arrangement this or that, a five-tiered cake or six, yadda yadda yadda.” Dwayne grabbed another glass from a passing waiter and took a swig. “Madness, I'm telling you. Madness.”

Ah, right. It was _his_ wedding. His sixth wedding to be exact, to a girl half his age. A child actress turned a pop star on the rise he had happened to meet at an award show. From what LaCroix had heard they started a tryst just a few months after Dwayne's fifth wedding.

Not that LaCroix liked to pay too much attention to the rumor mill, but often times he found them considerably useful to subdue his rivals.

“I’m sure Miss Dickinson only wants the best for the celebration, Mister Bettany. Women are the best perfectionists anyway. And she has an exquisite taste from what I see,” LaCroix opined.  

“As from a business standpoint, I think the wedding would do well in garnering votes for your brother from the younger generations,” he continued, this was LaCroix's diamond-sharp mind talking. The ever careful strategist. Years of being bombarded with Sun-Tzu's philosophies by Napoleon had certainly paid off. “These people adore Kelly, Mister Bettany. And they come not in a small number, from what I gathered. If you are able to play your cards right and get her admirers on your side, it should be a win-win solution for all. My sincerest apologies if my words came out too boorish, sir.”

Dwayne looked at him. Really looked at him as if LaCroix had just told the entire hall that he was a vampire or something.

“Jesus, Sebastian,” Dwayne sounded astonished. “I wanted to marry her because she's got a nice rack, but you sure got a point there.”

The old man chuckled before taking another sip of his champagne. “You know, you really are something, aren't ya? You're like what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? And with a million dollar company at your feet already no less. By the time you hit forty, you're going to take over the world by storm. And if I'm able to live long enough to see that happened, remind me never to bet against you.”

 _That's the plan_ , he thought sinisterly. _I have conquered Europe for centuries, I doubt America should be any different._

“Your candor is refreshing, Mister Bettany. I thank you for that,” LaCroix replied, masking a modest smile.

The older man shrugged. “And so is yours. I have always valued your opinions. In all seriousness, you really should talk to my brother sometimes. He would _definitely_ love to hear what's in that head of yours.”

LaCroix grinned triumphantly in his seat. _Good boy._

“It would be an honor if I could have an audience with the Mayor, Mister Bettany. His property tax policies have proven to be beneficial for my company and the changes he has done for Los Angeles is commendable and for that, he has my vote for the next election.”

“He'd be thrilled to hear that.” Dwayne stood up and extended his hand to him again with an ear-to-ear smile. LaCroix stood up as well. “A pleasure talking with you as always, LaCroix. And thank Christ my Kelly is not here-- she's shooting for that soda commercial now as we speak, or she would definitely fall into your arms instead.”

 _Absolutely distasteful._ “Most charmed. And the pleasure is also mine, Mister Bettany. Until we meet again.”

With that, the Mayor's brother went on his way to his brother's table. Finally, he exhaled with an air of finality. One by one, his plans beginning to fall into place. It was only a waiting game now before they could see the light of the day. Though patience was not his strongest suit, for this once, he knew better to learn to wait.

The band had already played a different song as he noticed. He let his attention drowned to the music, nodding to the familiar slow tune they played and his mind felt clearer for the first time in weeks. It was almost transcendental, really and he wondered if this what peace felt like. No riots against his own thoughts, no constant pressure he received from both his company and the Camarilla, no headaches over the Anarch's so-called revolution against his reign, no sleep paralysis on the side, no de Merode.

No _problem_. He could get used to this.

His eyes made another lazy sweep around the scrumptious hall, to the party guests before they landed on a brunette who was weaving through the crowd, her back turned to him. A vampire. She was swathed in an elegant, knee-length red Cheongsam dress with intricate golden Phoenix embroidery and high-slit that left little room to the imagination, that made people's head turn whenever she passed by and a leather sling bag that was uncharacteristically out of place for a party like this.

Her head kept turning back and forth as if she was looking for someone and suddenly LaCroix found himself curious.

Was she looking for her missing lover perhaps? Though looking at her, even if it was only a mere fleeting glance of her well-defined profile, LaCroix thought who in the right head would leave her for someone else? 

Then the woman turned her head to his direction and whatever thoughts about to enter his head died when LaCroix's eyes met _her_ oh-so-familiar amber ones. She blinked once, then twice, and so did he before relief washed over her visage. When she made a beeline straight to his position, LaCroix rose to his feet and met her halfway.

“Prince LaCroix.”

“Godard, what in the world are you doing here?” LaCroix asked, raising his volume a little due to the music playing. His eyes wide. “And how did you get in?”

“I Dominated one of the guards. The other was beyond my ability so I resorted to the alternative,” Godard replied without missing a beat. The alternative, of course, could either mean sex or death. He outrightly wished it was the latter, though. “I have been looking for you all night, sir,” she smiled, the way her eyes sparked suggestively didn't go unnoticed by him.

“I’m fairly certain you have,” LaCroix replied without malice, without a trace of humor, without anything, really. He had a theory if he spoke to her bereft of any emotion, his curiosity for her would eventually subside on its own.

“My assistant mentioned that you wished to see me. What is the matter of importance that couldn't wait or that a single phone call couldn't suffice?”

Godard inched closer to where he was standing, looking over her shoulder, making sure no one eavesdropping on their exchange. He followed her gaze with confused brows. Somehow, the action only made the Prince watchful.

She took a deep breath. “It’s about the sarcophagus,” muttered Godard, low enough for his ears to pick up despite their tumultuous surrounding. LaCroix’s eyebrow shot up at that. “Not something I'd rather deliver over the phone or prolong if you understand what I mean.”

The Prince swallowed the information carefully, then took his turn to take a deep breath, still eyeing her.

It had been at least three days since Godard had finished her assignment from the Elizabeth Dane in which, as he’d predicted, she’d managed to pull it off without a complication. Though, of course, the end result couldn’t be considered as the best given the matter about the sarcophagus’ condition.

If what Godard had claimed was true, if the sarcophagus somehow had been opened from the inside, then chances were whoever the sarcophagus held inside could be running around the city of Los Angeles right now or that a deadly curse had been set loose and threatened to wreak havoc the entire city. If that alone didn't make LaCroix's head spinning like a spin top, he didn't know what would.

And then there was the matter of seizing the artifact for himself without arousing any suspicions from the community. Whatever news about the Sarcophagus she could be carrying he needed to hear it _now_ and _first_. It was the right thing for Godard to find him when she did.

“Come.” Then LaCroix spun on his heels, motioning for the girl to follow him. “We'll discuss the matter somewhere else. You can't be too safe even amongst their kind.”

The pair walked past the swirling crowd and headed to the nearest door, which happened to lead to the balcony overlooking the city. The Prince gave one last gaze over his shoulder, making sure they weren't followed and stepped outside with a hand pressed behind her back.

He could see the entire city of Los Angeles sprawled out from here, throbbed with lights like fireworks in the velvet dark considering how bleak the sky was tonight. The stars have somewhat decided to remain closeted behind the lumps of gray clouds, the moon was the ever mysterious mistress she was, out of sight, out of mind. Which was a dreadful shame because she was supposed to be in her full form tonight.

LaCroix took his position by the railings, his hands folded behind his back while Godard settled herself next to him, shoulder to shoulder and suddenly, the prospect of being alone with her in the Mayor's balcony hit him like a freight train that LaCroix almost had half a mind to send her back to Downtown and ask her to meet him in his office later. Oh, how the columnists would _die_ to write about this. Though it wasn't the idea of being caught that didn't sit well with him the most, it was the thought of losing his carefully constructed self-restraint, submitting to his own desire that did.

LaCroix inwardly shook his head and tore his gaze away from her, as if she was the sun and now he was blinded by her ray.

“I've got good news and bad news, Your Highness,” Goddard spoke first. Flipped her bob hair to the side and turned to him. “Which one would you like to hear first?”

“Whichever you deem as necessary.”

“As you have heard, authorities are moving the sarcophagus from the Dane tonight. Now, the good news is, I managed to dig some information and find out that it's being headed to the Museum of Natural History. Saying there's this Archaeology professor who's going to examine it or something, flew all the way from Norway just for it. If someone knows about the sarcophagus obviously it has to be him,” she continued, her tone serious, all business-like. “The problem lies on getting the professor's name. I tried asking around, but I get the impression none of the officers was briefed about it. Which is odd. So, I thought I'd take this and figure it out myself.”

Godard then retrieved a file from her bag and handed it to him. His eyes glazed over on the museum's logo on and the bright and bold red _STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL_ stamp on the cover. Its seal had been broken.

LaCroix flipped open the folder, expecting to find the content entirely empty.

It wasn't.

“Akkadian. An ancient Assyrian language.” LaCroix frowned down at the words, sighing sharply as he did so. He leafed through several pages only to find the rest of the papers were written in the same ancient language. “And what else did you find?”

“Well, now here comes the part why this is considered as bad news; I found nothing else. It's like someone has swept everything under the rug and burn the whole house down,” Godard said, sighing and stared into the air for a few moments. “Can you read it?”

“No. No, I never taught myself to read Cuneiform, unfortunately.” LaCroix looked at her then, suddenly feeling inspired. “ _Fortunately,_  we have a scholar on our side.”

She met his eyes. “Beckett. Of course, how could I forget about him?” Godard chuckled, her voice like a summer breeze in the night. When LaCroix handed the folder back to her, their fingers brushed ever so fleetingly. The contrast between the softness of her fingertips against the roughness of his own skin was electrifying.

“What are your thoughts about this?”

“I think someone is trying too hard to play their cards close to their chest,” LaCroix's voice was laced with bitterness, almost snarling. The Prince simply loathed it when he was being put on the back foot. “Clearly, whoever this professor is and whatever he knows regarding the sarcophagus, the museum isn't intending to share this knowledge to the world if the they are willing to go through such length to hide their tracks.”

“The rumours are true, then. The sarcophagus _is_ holding someone powerful inside.”

“Undoubtedly so. Thus, it is our duty to stop it before it falls into the wrong hands,” LaCroix stated flatly, keeping his visage blank. Watching out of the corner of his eye for her reaction, to see if she had the slightest idea of this devious plan of his. She didn't.

Godard pushed herself off the balcony rails, looking rather contemplative. “So, what's our next move? Besides the obvious of having Beckett to translate all this, surely. Though assuming he's around and not six feet under, digging into god-knows-who's burial site in Egypt or something.”

“Leave Beckett to me. In the meantime, we wait until the sarcophagus has arrived at the museum. It is most imperative that we get our hands on the artifact before the Sabbat or the Kue--” LaCroix's mouth instantly clamped shut, his head came up like a bull scenting danger upon picking up footsteps from behind them, heading their way. “Someone is coming.”

LaCroix exhaled sharply at the interruption. Instantly, the two took two steps back at the time, their eyes following each other's, each knowing that their ongoing discussion was far from finished before a lumbering man in a dark suit appeared in the balcony. LaCroix recognised him as one of Dwayne's goons.

“What is it that you need?” LaCroix asked,  feeling Mary moved on his peripheral to stand beside him. Staring at the man curiously.

“Mister LaCroix, our apologies for the disruption, but the Mayor and mister Bettany have requested for you to join them at their table, sir.”

LaCroix felt a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. This was it, one of the moments he had been waiting for. He could have done the easy way and Dominated the Mayor and his brother into submission, but no, the Prince had wanted to challenge himself, to see how far he could charm his way into their heads without an influence of his power.

And he did it. Against all odds.

Straightening his posture, LaCroix beamed proudly at the bodyguard. “Of course, the honour is mine. Please, inform the gentlemen that I shall be there quite shortly.”

“Right away, sir.”

LaCroix had made sure that the human was out of their earshot, that no one else was within their proximity before he turned to face Godard.

“We'll discuss the matter about the sarcophagus later,” he said in a rushed whisper, running his free hand through his gelled hair. “Stay here. If anyone questions who you are, inform them that you are with me. Or simply Dominate them to walk away, whichever method that suits you.”

Without a word, Godard walked the almost nonexistent distance between them. Two feminine and graceful hands reached their way up and grasped the lapels of his suit jacket, smoothing them from any creases. Fixing his tie. Her pools of brows irises burning into his, intense and all-consuming.

His eyes flicked up to her face and looked at the walking conundrum before him, his _pawn_ , his apple of Eden, his human frustration and fascination, standing sophisticatedly with her left hand still lingered on his chest, smelling like fresh Gardenia and strangely, the ocean. Half of her face bathed by the golden lights, she looked as if dawn had come early in the skies and it struck LaCroix once again how vivacious Godard could be without even trying too hard.

She was close. Closer than the line she had crossed before that he could almost make out his reflection in her eyes. Her lips dangerously close to his face, their noses almost touching. His chest contracted slightly, puffing out short breaths as if he had been running all the way from the Himalayas. 

His mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. It was like being in that elevator again, the emotional tug of war, the fall, the struggle to resist. She was a planet on her own and he was a helpless moon trying to break free from her orbit. But her pull was so goddamn exhausting, and each time, his move grew centripetal.

God, Mercurio was right, wasn't he? Godard _was_ something else.

“Don't worry, my Prince. I know how to take care of myself,” she whispered in return, her voice like a liquid sin, dark and dangerously seductive. “Have fun talking with the Mayor.”

And then she was gone. Drawing away from his orbit and disappeared into the party like she owned the place. Her perfume lingered still in his nostrils.

LaCroix, who was still reeling back from what happened, shut his eyes and rubbed his temple in an attempt to dispel her… Well, her spell. The issue had reached the tipping point. He needed to cease this now before Godard had him wrapped around whatever this game she was playing with him, before he did something he regret later. Emotions would only lead into chaos, and chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again.

Taking a deep breath, the young Prince gathered his thoughts and strength back before making his way back inside. He still had a Mayor to meet, and LaCroix needed to make a worthy first impression lest this golden opportunity flew out of the window and dashed into specks of dust. It was now or never.

Then, he would sort out the mess that was Mary Godard later.

So much for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to 'borrow' that brilliant "chaos is a ladder" quote from game of thrones just because.
> 
> anyway, reviews and comments are always appreciated!


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